The empress of ice cream

Louise

The other women have come as shepherdesses, nymphs, figures from Roman and French mythology. Even the dances are French - menuets and glides and pasacalles. Everyone of any consequence in London is here, and every French noble and courtier in England. An attack on France is an attack on all of them, and now everyone waits to see if the king will show his support for France by attending the French ambassador’s reception.

If he does not, it will be a sign that the alliance is broken, for certain.

And then - at last! - a tall, masked figure appears at the top of the stairs, accompanied by a small group of favoured courtiers. The noise of the throng checks, like a beast looking around, then surges, louder than before.

The kinpi. The kin^ is here.

And . ..

He is dressed, no longer in black for his dead sister, but in the three-cornered plumed hat, silver-threaded coat and rolled-top boots of a French musketeer. ,

The kin£f inclines to Trance.

As he comes towards me, the people bow in a great undulating ripple, any pretence that he is incognito in his mask instantly abandoned - the force of his passage spreading obeisance through the crowd like a scythe passing through corn.

They bow to his back, and he ignores them, pressing forward.

He stops before me.

Instead of curtseying, I lift my pistol, aiming at his chest. At his heart. There is a collective gasp before the room goes quiet.

‘A forfeit, if you please,’ I say calmly.

The masked face looks down at me. ‘There are three things I

could give you, pretty highwayman. Can you guess what they are?’

His courtiers laugh, their minds running to the bedroom. I shake my head.

‘I can give you a dance, I can give you a kiss, or I can give you my heart. Which is it to be?’

I put up the gun. ‘A dance, then.’

‘Very well.’ And he escorts me onto the floor, the musicians immediately resetting the measure so that the whole company is forced to begin again.

As we reach the end of the dance he places his hands against my own, palm to palm, interlacing our fingers. His eyes, dark behind the mask, bore into me.

Then he opens his arms a little, our fingers still entwined, so that I am pulled towards him. Once again I sense the room around us go still.

Is this part of our game? Or something more?

The gentlest of kisses, on the very corner of my mouth. The smell of his cologne, musky and French. Brisdes from his moustache. And then his lips press harder, enveloping mine.

I stiffen involuntarily, and he steps back.

A buzz of conversation from those around us.

He puts his lips to my ear. ‘For a kiss such as that, I would fight a thousand wars.’

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